


haunting- i miss you

by zeitgeistofnow



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Deaf Character, M/M, everyone is very very sad that moritz is dead, ghost!moritz, i'm so proud of him!!!, melchior has a redemption arc!, melchior is the only white guy in this fic, the major character death refers to moritz's death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-03-02 10:32:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18809386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeitgeistofnow/pseuds/zeitgeistofnow
Summary: melchior misses him, and maybe everyone else misses him too, but melchior misses him themost.moritz thinks that this is an appalling performance of self-pity, the very thing melchior always ridiculed in other people. (if he lets himself, he misses melchior too.)melchior has some apologies to makeworking title: moritz is a ghost! gasp!!





	1. in which melchior's suits are wrinkled

Melchior hasn’t left his bed in two-and-a-half days, which absolutely no one, let alone him, is complaining about. He’s created a hollow out of his blankets with his computer, some books, and a tangle of chargers. The last few hours have been devoted to watched every single of Hank and John Green’s YouTube videos, and he didn’t even like  _ Fault in Our Stars _ . _ Looking for Alaska _ was better. Before that it was a marathon of Star Wars, which he didn’t like either, and before that he reread  _ The Picture of Dorian Gray,  _ which he says he likes because no matter how gay Oscar Wilde was, saying you liked his books gives you some kind of pretentious credit _ ,  _ and before that he scrolled all the way back to May 23rd, 2016 on Moritz’s instagram, and February 17th, 2017 on his twitter.

On February 17, 2017, at 2:34 in the morning, Moritz Stiefel tweeted:  _ jesus fucjinf christ this sucks. i wish i was dead. _

More recently, specifically, seven-and-a-half days ago, Moritz Stiefel tweeted:  _ goodvbye _

_ Goddamnit.  _ Melchior should’ve noticed. Why didn’t he notice? He retreats further into his blanket cave, hitting his elbow against the backboard, which still hurts, even through a comforter. There’s a crash from somewhere in the room and it takes Melchior a moment to notice. He peeks his head of of the cave and glances around the room, his eyes finally settling on the pile of suits and multicolored plastic hangers now resting on the floor. Moritz used to tease him about how many suits he has:  _ “You’re like a middle aged politician, Melchi.”.  _  Melchior blinks the memory- and the fuzziness in his vision- away and stares at the mess. He’s going to have to go pick it up soon- his dad will kill him if he gets the suits wrinkly, but he just doesn’t, can’t make himself crawl out of the isolative cave of blanket he’s made.

_ “You really should pick those up,”  _ Moritz signs, floating in the air a few feet away. The sudden movement draws Melchior’s eyes and he shrugs and looks back at the pile.

_ “There’s a lot of things I really should do. Go to church. Be heterosexual. Talk to-”  _ Melchior stops, his hands still halfway through the next sign.  _ “You’re dead,”  _ he finally signs.  _ “You’re… definitely dead.” _

_ “And you’re an asshole. Which of us is better off?”  _ Moritz looks unimpressed. He starts spinning slowly, turning in the air. Melchior can see his dresser through him, can see the paper mache cat Moritz had given him in second grade. 

Melchior shrugs and tugs his blanket around him.  _ “I don’t know.” _

Moritz is wearing beat-up sneakers and a band t-shirt- not what he died in, if Ilse’s report is to be believed, and not what he was buried in, either. His hair’s messy. Melchior wonders idly if he can fix it, or if it’s just stuck like that for eternity. 

_ “Can’t see myself in mirrors,”  _ Moritz signs, stopping spinning and staring unnervingly into Melchior’s eyes.  _ “Can’t touch anything but myself. I never fixed my hair anyway, you know.”  _ Melchior does know- he was usually the one to mess with Moritz’s hair, combing it over to one side before school and screwing with it after.

_ “Oh.”  _ Melchior tries to grasp for the right words, to maybe apologize, but all that comes out is,  _ “You… can read my thoughts?” _

Moritz shrugs.  _ “Sometimes. Only you. So, you know, if you were hoping I could tell you some of Hanschen’s weird-ass secrets, that’s a no.” _

_ “How do you know they’re weird?”  _

Moritz raises an eyebrow.  _ “How do I know that Hanschen’s secrets are weird?”  _ He repeats, sarcasm dripping off every gesture of his hands. 

Melchior nods and goes back to YouTube. After a while of spinning- is it a ghost thing?- Moritz joins him, watching John Green talk about dogs. Melchior turns on the captions. 

 

Moritz’s- rather, Moritz’s ghost, which doesn’t seem to be exactly the same as Moritz- doesn’t disappear the next morning, meaning that he probably wasn’t just a sleep-deprivation-driven hallucination. He pesters him until he finally gets out of bed and fixes the hangers. 

_ “You never cared about messes. Did you even see your room?”  _ Melchior complains as he gathers the suits.

Moritz stops spinning.  _ “Yeah, well.”  _ He crosses his arms, then uncrosses them like he’s going to sign something again, then crosses them again. Melchior takes the hint. He hangs up his clothes without signing anything, then moves to get back in bed. Moritz looks up and drifts into his path. 

_ “Dude,”  _ he signs,  _ “you can’t get  _ back  _ into bed! Do you know how much  _ effort  _ it took to get those hangers on the floor?” _

_ “What am I going to do out of bed?” _

Moritz waves his arms for a second, looking upset, before he composes himself.  _ “You’re supposed to live,”  _ he signs vehemently.

Melchior scowls.  _ “I thought I was an asshole.” _

_ “You are,”  _ Moritz signs automatically, then grudgingly adds,  _ “But maybe you can get better.” _

Melchior falls backwards onto the bed, spreading his arms and staring at the speckled ceiling for a few moments before Moritz’s face appears right above him. He can still see the ceiling through Moritz’s head. 

_ “Come on,”  _ Moritz signs.  _ “Because as cute as you look in your boxers, that’s not a thing that you can go outside in.” _

_ “Was it my fault?”  _ Melchior asks, holding his hands just above his chest. Moritz ignores him. 

_ “And I’m sure you’re eager to break all the girl’s hearts, but that’s not exactly-” _

Melchior moves to place his hands over Moritz’s, but they pass right through. He takes them back, startled by how cold the air around Moritz’s hands are. 

Moritz blinks down at him.  _ “Side effect of being dead,”  _ he signs, his face straight. 

_ “Your hands are always cold,”  _ Melchior says, remembering Moritz’s hands telling stories and burying themselves in Melchior’s pockets and paging through his math homework, remembering Melchior staring at them while signing  _ “I love you”,  _ remembering Moritz’s hands cupping his face a few seconds after.

_ “Were. Were always cold.”  _ Moritz corrects dryly, snapping Melchior out of his thoughts.  _ “And I have to read your thoughts, remember?” _

Melchior can feel himself blushing, which is ridiculous, because this is the ghost of his best friend, his, well, his-

_ “You were a shitty boyfriend, too, you know.”  _ Moritz says, leaning back so that he’s not above Melchior. Melchior props himself up on his elbows.

_ “We weren’t-” _

_ “Bullshit.”  _ Moritz signs sharply, and a gust of cold wind flies through Melchior’s closed window.  _ “You don’t get to  _ say  _ that to appease your conscious. If you even have one.”  _ He starts spinning, but stops halfway through so that Melchior can see the back of his head. 

He really wants to comb down the tuft of hair sticking up. 

_ “Don’t try to touch me,”  _ Moritz signs, slower than before, and the tone is more Moritz-y, even if what he’s saying isn’t. Melchior can see him sign through his abdomen, which is kind of weird.

_ “Sorry.” _

_ “Just- get dressed?”  _ Moritz runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up even more. Melchior doesn’t say anything, and Moritz doesn’t say anything about whatever Melchior’s thinking. 


	2. in which 'the picture of dorian gray' is gifted

_ “You’re going to talk to Ernst,”  _ Moritz signs, sitting on the counter. He’s kicking his legs like he used to, and it’s reminiscent of a month ago, how this was normal, Moritz having breakfast with Melchior. Except Moritz isn’t eating, he’s floating a foot above the counter, and Melchior can see the cabinet knob through his head. 

_ “Why?”  _ Melchior can tell that saying ‘no’ is a lost cause, and he gets that he’s supposed to be being a better person, but  _ Ernst?  _

_ “You’re going to apologize,”  _ Moritz clarifies. 

_ “For  _ what _?” _

Moritz shrugs.  _ “I’d say being a dick, but then we’d have to apologize to the whole school.” _

Melchior grinds his teeth at the insult, but he supposes that it’s maybe a bit deserved.  _ “Then why? I don’t even want to talk to him.” It’s his fault, it’s his fault, it’s his- if he hadn’t fucking passed, then maybe- _

_ “Why not?”  _ Moritz asks. He doesn’t look curious, just impassive. 

_ “You- you know why not,”  _ Melchior signs and yanks open the fridge.

_ “And you don’t want to say,”  _ Moritz looks smug.  _ “Because you  _ know  _ you’re wrong. It wasn’t his fault, and I haven’t been here, but I’m sure you’ve been a dick to him the last few days, haven’t you.” _

Melchior hadn’t seen Ernst much, since he hasn’t gone to school, but he’d ran into him after he found out, and may have, yeah, said some kind of mean things. Well, very mean, the kind of stuff he doesn’t want to think about over froot loops, but Melchior thinks they were deserving. Humanity can’t function properly if people don’t take responsibility for their actions.

_ “I hope I don’t have to point out how hypocritical that thought was. Ernst and I were friends. I’m glad he passed.” _

_ “But-”  _ Melchior hears himself make a soft disparaging noise, and he hates it. He splashes the milk when he pours it. There’s a puddle of white on the wood table now and Melchior can’t make himself move to clean it up.

_ “Being glad he passed and sad I didn’t isn’t mutually exclusive.”  _ Moritz signs this like it’s obvious, and his expression melts a bit at Melchior’s face, which he thinks is probably contorted kind of oddly, still staring at the spilt milk.  _ “Mechi, I know that this is probably going to be hard for you- no one knows more about your overinflated ego than me- but you can do it, and I’ll help.” _

Melchior spares Moritz a smile. _ “You were always better than me.” _

 

It’s not too difficult to convince his mom to let them- him- leave- she practically shoves him out the door. Moritz follow a second later, passing through the solid wood door like it’s a beaded curtain. He smiles almost shyly at Melchior’s perturbed expression and ushers him down the street.

Ernst is sitting at the edge of the community garden, leaning against the fence and picking at a leaf, his face etched into a frown. Moritz’s expression drops immediately and he tries to shove Melchior through the gate. Melchior half-giggles when Moritz’s hands go straight through his abdomen and Ernst looks up. He goes rigid when he sees Melchior, and Melchior almost feels bad about what he said. 

_ “You don’t look happy to see me,”  _ he signs instead, forcing a smirk, and Moritz hisses at his back. 

_ “Well, I-”  _ Ernst is too polite to say anything about he and Melchior’s last interaction and Melchior knows this. He knows that Moritz is probably… disappointed that he’s taking advantage of it. Ernst swipes a strand of curly brown hair out of his face and Melchior realizes that he’s never really looked at Ernst. 

Like, he has freckles? Who knew?

_ “Like, everyone,”  _ Moritz signs. Melchior does his best not to respond because the fact that he’s talking to ghosts is not the kind of thing he wants to get out.  _ “Hanschen definitely does,”  _ Moritz adds slyly. Melchior doesn’t look up at him because he doesn’t want to laugh. 

_ “I thought you might be Hanschen,”  _ Ernst finishes, his face flushing.

Melchior bends down to sit next to Ernst.  _ “Ah, Hanschen.”  _ He tries to nod knowingly, but the idea that anyone could genuinely like Hanschen is so perplexing he can’t help but make a face.

Ernst giggles and it’s sweet, like a little brother that you would want to protect from people like Hanschen. 

_ “And you like him?”  _ Melchior asks, mouth pursed. 

_ “You’re being judgy,”  _ Moritz critiques. Melchior ignores him.

_ “Yeah, I do.”  _ Ernst looks like he really does, his face faraway in a way that Melchior recognizes as thinking about someone who’s somewhere else. He tosses away the leaf he was dismantling while he blinks, and his face reddens again.  _ “But I don’t- he’s Hanschen.”  _ he finishes, in a way that somehow sums up everything he was trying to say. 

_ “Indeed. I advise you to immediately stop talking to him-”  _ Melchior catches Moritz’s eye and stops.  _ “Or you should- you should have a  _ conversation  _ and set boundaries. Those- those are important in relationships.”  _ Sometimes Melchior wishes he ever had the forethought to take his own advice, and from what he can see, Moritz wishes he did too. 

He remembers Moritz’s face closed off and red, his hair still mussy from Melchior’s hands, leaving because Melchior had said something he shouldn’t have. Moritz, hair still perfectly combed, leaving because Melchior hadn’t said something, because Melchior had done something that even he can see he never never should’ve done, and just because- they should’ve talked. Ernst seems nice, Hanschen needs- Melchior doesn’t want- god. Whatever.

_ “Or do whatever the fuck you want. It’s your life.”  _ Melchior can feel his face closing off, and Ernst’s eyes open in horror. 

_ “Oh, god, Melchior. You just lost your boyfriend and I’m sitting here talking about Hanschen.” _

_ “He’s not my boyfriend.”  _

Ernst doesn’t catch the use of present tense, or maybe he just dismisses it as irrationality, but Moritz does, and he scowls at both the statement and Melchior’s guilty expression. 

_ “And Hanschen isn’t mine,”  _ Ernst responds.  _ “But you guys were close and it must be awful- I can’t imagine-”  _ a quiet sob escapes Ernst and he flushes again.  _ “Sorry, I just miss him. I know you probably do more, I mean. You told me as much, but-” _

Melchior wants to start crying too, wants to invite Ernst over for milk and cookies or something- the guy makes him want to comfort him- but he can feel Moritz’s presence, even where he’s drifted behind Melchior, and so he pushes back his tears and shifts awkwardly.  _ “Yeah, I wanted to apologize about that. That wasn’t cool.”  _ Forcing himself to sign the words is hard. He hasn’t properly apologized to anyone but his mom in years.

_ “It’s okay. You were under a lot of stress.” _

Moritz drifts back into Melchior’s sight line and smiles fondly at Ernst.  _ “He wants to be a social worker when he grows up.”  _ he signs absently. 

_ “No, it wasn’t okay.”  _ Melchior had started apologizing out of a sense of duty, but Ernst seemed genuinely upset about Moritz and Melchior feels awful about what he’d said all of a sudden.  _ “You had a right to be sad too. He was- he was your friend, right?” _

Ernst sniffles and Melchior feels another rush of irrational anger- why is  _ he  _ sad, it wasn’t  _ his  _ best friend that died, it wasn’t-

Moritz shoots Melchior a warning glare and Melchior tries to clear his head. 

_ “Yeah.”  _ Ernst’s mouth twitches up into a smile, and he looks up at Melchior through his frankly ridiculously long eyelashes.  _ “We were. He helped me with my English a while ago.” _

_ “That was… nice of him.”  _ How did Melchior never notice that they were friends?

_ “You and Hanschen were too busy arguing over our heads.”  _ Moritz signs dryly. Melchior nods slightly in acknowledgement. 

“Mmhm.” Ernst mumbles and swipes at his eyes.  _ “Geez. You don’t believe in heaven, do you?” _

Melchior shakes his head. He almost wishes that he did, but he never had, and with Moritz hovering over his shoulder the concept feels ridiculous.

_ “Of course you don’t.”  _ Ernst sighs softly.  _ “So don’t make fun of me, but I think that he’s up there somewhere, watching  _ Hairspray  _ on a giant theater screen.” _

Melchior wants to make fun of him, really really wants to, because the idea that, after you die, even if your soul somehow survives, why would Moritz be in some weird cloud utopia? But Moritz glares at him and Melchior just shifts in his seat and digs through his bag. 

_ “I brought you a book,”  _ he mutters, shoving his copy of  _ Dorian Grey  _ at Ernst. Moritz raises a silent eyebrow- he knows Melchior didn’t plan to give Moritz it. 

Ernst just glances at it before breaking into a tiny fit of giggles.  _ “You want me, a gay artist in love with a arrogant guy, to read  _ The Picture of Dorian Grey _. A story in which a gay artist is stabbed by the arrogant boy he’s in love with.” _

Melchior laughs too- a bit breathier than normal.  _ “Oh. You’ve read it, then?” _

_ “Hanschen made me.” _

_ “Well, I mean.”  _ Melchior stops, then forces himself to finish the sentence.  _ “I guess. Hanschen isn’t quite as bad as Dorian.” _

Moritz rolls his eyes.

_ “Yeah,”  _ Ernst agrees, flipping absently through the first few pages of the novel.  _ “He isn’t.” _


	3. in which cookies are eaten and cigarettes are smoked

_ “Well, that didn’t go so bad,”  _ Melchior tells Moritz, walking home.

Moritz hums.  _ “It’s a start.” _

_ “Jesus,”  _ Melchior sighs.  _ “You’re never satisfied, are you. That’s the most genuine interaction I’ve had in years.” _

_ “You’re depressing,”  _ Moritz asserts.  _ “I don’t know how you plan to survive without me.” _

The statement is oddly jarring. Melchior isn’t sure if Moritz intended it to be- he had always had a habit of saying things that threw Melchior for a loop, of poking holes in his argument that neither of them had known existed. It had always been Melchior making sure that Moritz was okay, that he understood the math, that he updated his phone and combed his hair and remembered his cousin’s wedding. 

_ “You weren’t some kind of benevolent person, Melchior,”  _ Moritz signs, a his face just the other side of disapproving.  _ “You benefited from our relationship just as much as I did.” _

Melchior just nods and opens the door. He steps aside for Moritz to go through and Moritz snickers.  _ “How gentlemanly,” _ he signs over his shoulder and side steps to avoid going through the doorway, opting for floating through the mailbox. Melchior rolls his eyes and shucks off his sneakers. He wanders into the kitchen again and starts making himself a milkshake. He’s gotten a solid amount of character development in the last half-hour, he deserves it. Moritz watches him get out the ice cream, the milk, and the chocolate syrup. 

Moritz makes a face.  _ “Chocolate?” _

_ “I assumed you wouldn’t be having any.”  _ They used to have milkshakes together after school- well, after after school, after Melchior’s student council and Moritz’s study sessions- and they’d always make strawberry ones with pints of ice cream from the gas station. Moritz always hated chocolate stuff, and Melchior thought vanilla was boring, so strawberry was their compromise. 

Moritz smiles wryly.  _ “Good point. Eat whatever you want.” _

Melchior turns on the blender and doesn’t respond. He’s not sure what to say. Moritz is being so belligerent, and it’s so unlike him. It’s throwing Melchior for a loop. Moritz was always the person he could count on to take his side, and Moritz hasn’t agreed with anything he’s said since he… came back. It’s kind of stressful, and Melchior doesn’t get it.

_ “Death is illuminating,” _ Moritz signs. Melchior knows that he can read his thoughts, but it’s still jarring. _ “Also sucky, but, you know, thought-provoking.” _ He kicks his legs and they go straight through the cupboard door.  _ “I talked to some guys, floated around in purgatory for a while. Ghost stuff.” _

Melchior nods and switches off the blender. He grabs a plastic cup from the cupboard and pours out the shake. When Moritz doesn’t continue, he cocks his head at the other boy and Moritz purses his lips. 

_ “I realized that you were kind of a douche, Melchi,”  _ Moritz signs. Melchior’s mind glosses over most of the sentence at first because Moritz is back to calling him Melchi and that has to be good, but. 

“Oh,” he says.  _ “Was I really?”  _ He looks down at his cup and takes a long drink. It tastes like expensive chocolate sauce and coldness. 

Moritz shrugs, suddenly looking shy.  _ “Yeah. The thing- with Wendla, and…”  _ he stops.  _ “You can be so sweet, though, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t blame you, but you hurt me- I…”  _ He stops and scrubs at his hair, scars on his arms in plainer light than Melchior had ever seen them, and suddenly Melchior is very angry. 

_ “Don’t try to blame me,  _ you _ ran away.” _

Moritz shrinks in on himself and it’s so fucking typical of him and Melchior dumps his milkshake down the drain and walks closer to Moritz, as close as he can without put his hands through him.  _ “You couldn’t deal, you couldn’t fucking talk to me or tell me what you felt? I  _ know  _ I’m a jerk, Moritz, but I didn’t know- I wouldn’t hurt you, not on purpose. You were too much of a coward to talk to me, so you offed yourself? You left me here, alone?”  _ He can feel a lump forming in his throat and he doesn’t want to cry in front of Moritz (some part of his mind points out that Moritz knows that he’s going to cry, he can read his mind, but Melchior ignores it) so he leaves. Stalks up to his room like a petulant teenager and slams the door. 

Moritz doesn’t come after him, and Melchior stops waiting after a little while.

 

At some point, he stops crying and starts watching YouTube comedy skits, which morphs into a Netflix show that he’s not the least invested in, then falls asleep. Moritz still isn’t there the next morning, and he would’ve thought it was all a dream except when he stumbled downstairs there’s a ceran-wrapped plate of cookies on the counter. 

“One of your school friends dropped it off,” his mum says. “Cute boy, freckles and overalls.” The cookies are chocolate chip and look obscenely good. There’s a note on it that’s folded up and sealed with a heart-shaped sticker, the ones you use on Valentines Day. Melchior’s stomach rumbles- he barely at anything yesterday, just cereal, a sip of milkshake, and some oreos he found on his dresser. The oreos were from Moritz, before he died- Moritz didn’t like any of the snacks Melchior’s mom kept around the house, so he bought his own oreos to keep at Melchior’s. Melchior ate all of them last night and felt guilty.

He takes one of the cookies and holds it in his mouth, unfolding the letter. 

_ dear melchior,  _ it says, no capitalization,  _ thank you for the novel. i’m so so sorry for your loss, and i can find any way to say that without sounding like a form letter or crying. i made these cookies yesterday because they were moritz’s favorites and they taste good but i can’t eat them. i thought you might appreciate it. -ernst robel _

Under the cookie Melchior just took is another note, on his mom’s grocery-list paper. he unfolds it, mostly expecting Moritz’s messy handwriting. It’s shakier than it was when he was alive, and Melchior remembers Moritz saying how much effort it took to interact with things in real life. It just says  _ talk to Hanschen  _ with a tiny angry face on the bottom. Melchior smiles despite himself, then swallows the tears that he knows were going to follow it. 

“I’m going out, mum,” he shouts. 

“If you see the cookie boy, tell him thank you,” his mum shouts back. “Ask if he would sell me some more. They’re better than the pot brownies your dad used to make.”

Melchior rolls his eyes. He knows it’s just an attempt to make him laugh, but it’s only a bit funny and he doesn’t feel like laughing. “Sure, mum,” he mutters and shuffles into his shoes, half eaten cookie between his teeth.

 

“Your boyfriend’s cookies are really good,” Melchior offers. He found Hanschen by the high school, perched on a retaining wall and smoking. He’d greeted Melchior with a glare and a specific finger, but Moritz wanted Melchior to do this, and even though Melchior is studiously not thinking about him, he was probably right.

“So you’re being nice to Ernst now?” Hanschen doesn’t meet his eyes. 

“I’ve always been nice to him,” Melchior says, jumping up onto the wall next to Hanschen. 

“Keep telling yourself that,” Hanschen says, and smirks, turns to look at Melchior. He looks dead, sort of, dark circles under his eyes and a etched frown. “So, come to apologize for using me to get over your now-dead  _ beloved _ ?”

Melchior stiffens, just a bit, and Hanschen looks guilty, just a bit. Only for a moment, and their masks of bravado are recovered. “Yeah,” Melchior says. “How’d you know?”

“Ernst.” Hanschen takes a drag and kicks at the wall. “He says that you apologized and were  _ sweet,”  _ Hanschen says, the word dripping with distaste. Hanschen, Melchior decides, would be a terrible son to have. 

“Moritz used to say the same thing,” Melchior says wistfully. Hanschen scoffs. 

“Yeah, we all know. He was so far gone for you. A bit pathetic.”

“Don’t call him that,” Melchior says and takes Hanschen’s fag. He inhales deeply and watches the smoke spiral away. “Look, our thing was a mistake, and I haven’t ever really felt anything like that for you, and I was… probably just using you to avoid emotions.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Melchior raises his eyebrows and Hanschen raises his eyebrows back. “Did I mention that you were both pathetic? I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near your dick if I wasn’t trying to get over someone too. Difference is, I figured my stuff out and Ernst is still here.”

“It’s not like it was my fault, he was the one who… you know.” Melchior hisses, grinding the cigarette butt out on the wall.

“Except it kind of was,” Hanschen almost sing-songs, and Melchior wants to punch him so much. There’s a beat, and Hanschen sobers. He loops one leg over the side of the wall and places both hands in between them, and grimaces. “Look, Melchior, I’m sorry for your loss, honestly. Moritz was a wonderful person and it’s a fucking crime he’s not still with us. But you keep blaming other people and I would’ve backed off except you blamed Ernst and he cried for an  _ hour  _ after you fucking ambushed him.” Hanschen’s face twists at the memory and he shifts closer to Melchior, who scoots back. “You’re not blameless, Melchior. I know what happened with Wendla, and so did Moritz. You know that was fucked up.”

Melchior just scowls at him. “I came to apologize, not to have all my flaws pointed out.”

“If you came to apologize without knowing this particular flaw, Melchi, you were doing it wrong.” Hanschen smirks when Melchior winces at the nickname. “I used to call you that too, asshole, before you dropped me like out of fashion boots when Moritz came along.” He stands up and starts to walk away. “Don’t worry, I got over it,” he calls over his shoulder, untangling his earbuds with one hand. 

Melchior stares at the ash smudge on the wall. “Sorry,” He mutters.

Hanschen doesn’t hear, but Melchior doesn’t think he was listening for it, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ughhh halfway through this i realized i wanted to make some minute changes to earlier chapters to make it a bit more clear what melchior was doing bad but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ thats life.


	4. in which melchior cries

And so he’s mostly apologized to Hanschen, he’s done what Moritz asked him to do. He should be done now. He should feel fine, he shouldn’t have a nagging feeling of guilt as he walks home. He was only ever doing any of this for Moritz, and now he’s finished. He’s done, there’s nothing else to bother with.

But when he passes Wendla’s house- it’s pale gray and has tulips growing in front, Wendla’s mom’s pride and joy- he can’t quite bare to look up from his shoes, even as they stop moving, almost of their own accord. He stands for a moment, then collapses on the curb, hugging his knees to his chest.  _ Fuck.  _ He can feel a lump forming in the back of his throat and he does his best to swallow it. He’s never been one of those idiots who insist that crying is the sign of being a pussy or something lame- he’s generally actively ridiculed those people- but he is failable, and he does still care about the opinions of strangers. Crying on the curb of a random neighborhood is not in his plans.

He swallows again and hums  _ Row, row, row your boat-  _ it’s a trick Moritz showed him. It just makes him feel worse. 

He swallows again. And again, and finally feels a bit better. He stands up, ready to continue on his way him, and glances at Wendla’s house again. It hadn’t been too long ago that he and Moritz had shown up to Wendla’s spring break house party, Moritz in a stolen flannel and Melchior in khakis and a t-shirt with a joke about Freud on it. The only person who’d got his shirt had been Hanschen, and he had looked mildly disgusted by it, but Melchior wore clothes for himself, not fucking Rillow. It had been a really nice night outside, and Melchior had immediately lost Moritz in the crowd. Hanschen had asked where Ernst was, Melchior had shrugged over the shitty music someone had put on, Melchior had sipped from his solo cup. Hanschen had wandered away, Wendla and Georg had walked up and they’d made small talk for a while- about classical musicians, because Georg was obsessed and Wendla was polite and Melchior was pretentious- and then Georg had left. And it had been a nice night, and Wendla and Melchior had gone up to look at the stars, except they hadn’t gotten past her room, or her bed. 

And Wendla was drunk, and Melchior was drunk but as drunk, and someone must have stumbled in on them because the next day it was everywhere. And Moritz had never said anything, so Melchior had never said sorry. He thinks he probably should have, maybe. 

Hindsight really is a bitch. 

Melchior gazes at the house for a while longer, at the tree that he and Wendla used to play on when they were younger, freer. He misses that. It feels ridiculous, nostalgia, but sitting on the top of that tree he felt more powerful than he has since. Maybe if he were still a five year old, high off the fresh air, he’d be able to go up and knock on the door and talk to Wendla. 

And then the decision is made for him. The front door flies open and Wendla frowns out at him. She’s wearing overalls and a striped long sleeved shirt, her hair back in twin plaits. She’s holding a glass of iced tea with one hand and the door open with the other and Melchior has never been more nervous or happier to see someone. Wendla puts down the cup of tea on a side table.

_ “What’re you doing in my front yard, Melchior?” _ She asks, not unkindly. Melchior doesn’t know if Wendla can be unkind. 

_ “Waiting to see you,”  _ Melchior signs back, ambling up the front walk and stopping at the edge of her porch.  _ “Can I come in?” _

_ “Be my guest,” _ Wendla signs, gesturing inside. Melchior wanders through her living room and into the kitchen, where he leans against the counter. Everything looks a bit different than Melchior remembers, which he supposes is to be expected. Childhood and alcohol both cloud memories. 

_ “It’s been a while since we’ve properly hung out,” _ he signs.  _ “We used to be joined at the hip back in elementary school. What happened?” _

Wendla sips her tea. _ “You met Hanschen,” _ she signs _. “Suddenly playing house with me wasn’t something you were interested in.” _ It’s not accusatory, but Melchior feels stung either way. Wendla shrugs.  _ “You asked.” _

_ “Yeah, I guess I did.”  _

Wendla offers Melchior some iced tea and they make pleasant but inconsequential conversation for a few minutes. After a short conversation about the weather, Wendla cocks her head at Melchior.  _ “So, Melchior, why were you loitering in my front yard?” _

Melchior holds up his hands- he’s ready to apologize, he knows exactly what he’s doing, he’s already done this today- but he can’t quite get the words out. _ “I-”  _ he coughs and drinks some of his tea. Wendla blinks at him, her eyes doe-like and brown. 

_ “Melchior?” _

_ “I’m sorry,” _ he signs, eyeing the bottom of his cup through the amber-colored tea. the ice cubes bob around and he feels slightly ill.

He misses Moritz. 

_ “For what?” _ Wendla leans back against the counter and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. 

Melchior grinds his teeth.  _ “I don’t know exactly,” _ he admits, _ “but I think I messed up at the party. Something about us having sex felt off.” _

_ “I'm glad you’ve gotten that far, at least.” _ Wendla smiles benevolently at him and braces herself against the counter. _ “I was drunk, Melchior. It was definitely not the best decision I’ve made, and I wasn’t in a position to have made it. I am almost certain you were sober enough to, though. You should’ve thought that through.” _ She shakes her head. _ “Did we even use protection?”  _ Her expression makes it clear that she’d assumed they didn’t.

Melchior flushes. _ “Um… Probably not. I’m sorry.”  _ The apology doesn’t come automatically yet, and it still feels a bit like he’s forcing it out, but it’s easier than last time. And maybe it’s good that it’s not automatic. Maybe it’s good that he has to think out his  _ sorry _ s.  _ “But you’re on the pill, right? I assumed it wouldn’t matter anyway.” _ It’s a flimsy excuse.

Wendla rolls her eyes. _ “Do you use that excuse with the boys you do things with? They can’t get pregnant either, Melchior, but they can sure get hepatitis. So can I.” _

_ “I’m healthy,” _ Melchior signs weakly. He is, too. He volunteers at Planned Parenthood and gets tested… occasionally. His sex life isn’t too much, so there’s not much need.

_ “Well, I didn’t know that, did I.”  _ Wendla flushes.  _ “And I don’t take birth control, no. My mom won’t pay for it because she doesn’t think… well, you know.” _

Shit! Fucking hell! Jesus  _ Christ! _

_ “Um…”  _ Wendla’s signing trails off, looking up at Melchior through her hair.  _ “Ilse took me to Walgreens to get a morning-after pill. It was kinda expensive, but she chipped in. So I’m fine.” _

_ “Shit, Wendla, I’m sorry I put you through that.” _ Another apology. Melchior’s getting good at this.

_ “No, I was fine. I’m sorry about Moritz.” _

Melchior blinks at the sudden subject change- maybe not so sudden, really- and at how genuine Wendla seems.  _ “Oh… thank you. Look, Wendla, I’m really sorry I slept with you. It wasn’t… it wasn’t right of me. I was dating someone else, and you didn’t know that, and I took advantage of you to ignore that I was dating someone else.” _

_ “That sounds hard, Melchior. I’m sorry you went through that.” _

Melchior blinks at her. It would be so easy to just agree- yes, it was hard, it was sad that he had to deal with that. He was victimized by the world, who put him in a situation where he was confused and lonely and took advantage of people that he cared about. 

He frowns. _“No, that was my fault. Yeah, it really fucking sucked, but I could’ve figured it out without hurting people. I could’ve listened to people other than me. Like you, or Ernst, or M-”_ fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. He can’t quite complete the name, can’t quite make out Moritz’s sign name without whimpering like a five year, which he does anyway. He melts to the floor in front of the stove, choking on sobs and curling in on himself. Wendla immediately runs to his side, wrapping her arms around his side and petting his hair.

“Shhhh-shhh-shhhh,” she murmurs, like how you’d talk to a skittish horse. On principle, it irritates Melchior, but he has to admit it’s kind of nice in practice. 

_ “I’m so sorry,”  _ he manages.  _ “I should go-” _

“No!” Wendla exclaims, patting his head.  _ “You have to stay for at least a little while longer, you look like a mess. I wouldn’t want the neighbors to worry.” _

Melchior blushes deeper and leans back against the oven door.  _ “Thank you.” _

The front door flies open and the reverberations from it hitting the wall echo throughout the house. Hanschen stands in the doorway, holding paper bags of something in both arms. Ernst is right behind him, a cardboard box trapped between his arm and his hip. Hanschen looks somewhat brighter than he had an hour ago, and Ernst is beaming. That is, until he sees Melchior, when his smile fades into a more polite one. 

Hanschen doesn’t seemed fazed. “Well, well, look what the cat dragged in. An asshole who is, perhaps, finally realizing he’s one?”

Melchior flips him off tiredly and Hanschen throws his grocery bags on the kitchen floor. One falls sideways, a bag of flour  _ thump _ ing against the ground.  _ “We’re having tea,”  _ Hanschen explains. His mouth twists, probably expecting Melchior to say something snotty. Melchior wants to- it’s how their relationship has always worked, making fun of each other until someone got fed up- but he can’t muster the energy right now. 

_ “That’s cool,”  _ Melchior signs back.  _ “Um… is it okay if I stay?” _

_ “If you can make cookies,”  _ Ernst signs cheerfully, his grin back. 

Melchior cannot, in fact, make cookies, but he can pretend he knows how.  _ “Uh, yeah.” _

Hanschen shoots him a look that is perhaps a bit too knowing, and Melchior rolls his eyes at him. Hanschen gives him a hand and helps him to his feet. “I’m glad you’re hanging out with us, dude. I’m sorry I was so harsh earlier.” He mutters in Melchior’s ear. Melchior shrugs.

_ “I’ve been a jerk to you the past ten years, it was deserved,”  _ Melchior signs. 

Hanschen steps back and gives Melchior an appraising, and slightly suspicious, look.  _ “Okay.” _

Melchior rolls his eyes at him and rolls up his sleeves.  _ “So, what kinda cookies are these?” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i thought this would be the last chapter but ig not?? what i already had was more words than i thought. almost 100% sure the next one is the last, though, so keep your eyes out for that!   
> this is going to be the first multichaptered fic ive finished since like... i was into hamilton and wrote a realllly bad superhero AU and im honestly rly excited.


	5. in which a slide is sat underneath

They have tea, and it’s nice, even if Ernst lets the tea steep for too long and the peppermint taste is almost overwhelming, and it turns out that Melchior is actually very good at making cookies. (According to Wendla. According to Hanschen, he is… passable, but Hanschen eats at least seven of the sugar cookies, so Melchior counts it as a win.) None of them bring up Moritz, and no one starts crying. The closest anyone comes is when Hanschen mentions that Ernst’s been baking a ton  _ “since, well… you know,”  _ and Ernst blinks too much too fast and Melchior takes a gulp of tea that’s too hot and burns his tongue. 

He starts to stand up once they’ve eaten all the cookies and mostly exhausted topics of conversation, ready to leave. Before he can take more than a step across the linoleum floor, Ernst grabs at his shirt-tails, flushing. 

_ “Oh, don’t go yet.” _

_ “Why wouldn’t I?”  _ Melchior frowns at him and Ernst rubs at the back of his neck. 

_ “I mean, you can, I just want you to know that…”  _ Hanschen and Wendla start a hushed conversation in the corner of Melchior’s vision, Hanschen sipping delicately from some of Ernst’s mother’s china.  _ “If you ever want to talk,”  _ Ernst continues,  _ “you can just call me. I’m taking some time off school and stuff, so I’m free if you need me.”  _ He twiddles his thumbs for a moment after he finishes, and Melchior blinks at him, then turns on his heel, storming out of the house.

He doesn’t need fucking  _ Ernst  _ to help him, he’s capable of getting over this himself. Ernst isn’t the kind of person who would ever help Melchior. Melchior should be the one tutoring him or something. “I’m fine,” he says to himself. 

“Absolute bullshit!” Hanschen calls after him. 

“Go  _ fuck  _ yourself!” Melchior shouts, slamming Wendla’s screen door and storming down the street, kicking at pebbles and almost tripping more times than he’d like to admit. 

He’s not really sure where he’s going. Not home, definitely. There’s too much Moritz in his room, too many reminders of how  _ awful  _ he was. He doesn’t think he can handle that right now. Not any of his friends houses- he doesn’t really have any friends, other than Moritz. Hanschen might be the closest to a friend he has now, and he just screamed at him and stormed out of his tea party without a real reason. He hates himself so  _ fucking  _ much and he stews in it as he wanders, ignorning the odd looks he gets from people mowing their lawns. 

He winds up at the elementary school playground after he-doesn’t-know how long. He and Moritz used to hang out there in middle school, pretending they still fit in the swings and slides. They’d buy chocolate bars from the gas station and sit on top of the monkey bars, talking about their least favorite teachers, of which there were many, and their favorite school lunches, of which there were few. They were both so happy back then, even if they really only had each other. Middle school was a simpler time, without… everything else. 

Melchior huddles under the tube slide, where he and Hanschen used to play truth or dare during recess and where, years later, he and Moritz used to smoke and work on homework. He leans back against the pole holding up the structure and sighs, and then Moritz is there, criss-cross-applesauce in front of him. 

_ “How was tea?”  _ Moritz asks. His hair is fixed now, Melchior notes idly, and he’s traded his converse for leather boots.

“Uh.” Melchior swallows, staring at Moritz.  _ “Good, yeah. Or… not good, actually. It was good but then I left.” _

Moritz rolls his eyes and falls backwards, sprawling out. His legs tangle with Melchior’s, but there’s none of the familiar weight that usually comes with it, just the feeling of a gust of wind, except it doesn’t leave.  _ “Of course you did. Why?” _

Melchior shrugs.  _ “Ernst offered to talk about… you. I guess I wasn’t ready.”  _ As soon as he says it, it seems obvious. He wasn’t ready. It’s one thing acknowledging that Moritz is dead and that it’s his fault in his head. A different thing entirely out loud. He just… wasn’t ready. 

_ “I’m glad I could be so helpful,” _ Moritz signs  _ “And it wasn’t your fault.”  _

_ “Well, that’s what you’ve fucking been saying this whole time, isn’t it?”  _ Melchior signs, scowling.  _ “That I’m such as ass that you offed yourself?”  _ Just as fast as it appeared, his irritation disperses.  _ “I mean…”  _

_ “That wasn’t my intent, Melchi,”  _ Moritz signs carefully.  _ “It wasn’t your fault.”  _ He rolls his eyes again.  _ “Not everything is about you.” _

Melchior lets out a huff of a sigh.  _ “But-” _

_ “You weren’t blameless, but you can’t place all of the blame on yourself.”  _ Moritz sits back up as he talks, his face almost curiously blank. Or, no. Serene. Melchior’s not used to the expression on Moritz’s face. He was always the more expressive of the two of them, his face broadcasting every emotion he had. Moritz smiles slightly at Melchior’s thoughts.  _ “It’s because I’m dead. Getting more dead, actually, by the second. I’m not going to be able to stay with you much longer.”  _ He looks sheepish.

“Oh,” Melchior says. He swallows the lump in his throat-  _ Moritz is actually leaving-  _ and offers a shaky smile.  _ “I’m sorry,”  _ he signs, and his smile collapses into itself and he’s fucking crying again.  _ Again!  _ It’s like, the third time today. He can’t handle this. 

Moritz crawls over to him and tucks into his side, but there’s still no warmth to his touch and Melchior hates it. He hates this so much.  _ “I’m sorry I was such a shit boyfriend. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing and I hurt you and I hate-”  _ he swallows.  _ “I’m sorry.” _

Moritz nods at him.  _ “Thanks.”  _ he signs, blushing.  _ “I honestly didn’t think you’d apologize,”  _ he admits, smiling weakly.  _ “I’m proud of you.” _

Melchior rolls his eyes.  _ “No extra credit for being a decent human being,”  _ he signs. Then:  _ “I love you.” _

_ “I love you too,”  _ Moritz responds easily, and Melchior leans closer to him- it’s almost just muscle memory, how their mouths fit together, how Melchior rests a hand on Moritz’s waist- and kisses him as deeply as he can. He feels almost human, for a moment. It feels normal- just another day. Like tomorrow Melchior will wake up and pick Moritz up to drive to school together and they’ll get pizza at lunch and do homework together. Moritz’s lips are soft and his eyes flutter closed and it’s perfect- for a moment, before Moritz starts to fade away and Melchior is left by himself under the tube slide, choking on his tears and trying to pretend that nothing’s wrong. He stays alone for another five minutes, maybe- he’s never been the best with time, and crying has a way of making it all disappear- before he hears footsteps. 

Hanschen is still signing when he crawls out from under the playground.  _ “-promise he came here. He and Moritz used to hang out here all the time. He-”  _ Hanschen drops his hands when he sees Melchior.  _ “Hey, jerk.” _

_ “Hey, asshole,”  _ Melchior responds, but his hands are shaking and it’s not as nonchalant as he’d like. Hanschen pretends he doesn’t notice, but Wendla and Ernst have no such qualms. 

_ “Oh no!”  _ Wendla just signs, looking concerned, but also like she’s not sure what to say. 

_ “I’m sorry I pressed,”  _ Ernst frets.  _ “I should’ve guessed you wouldn’t want to talk to me.” _

Melchior glances at Hanschen, who’s frowning at the ground.  _ “No, I would,”  _ he reassures.  _ “I’m just… not ready?”  _ He sits down in the woodchips.  _ “I miss him.” _

All three of the others- his friends, maybe, someday- sit down with him.

_ “It’s okay that you do,”  _ Wendla signs.  _ “We all miss him.” _

_ “I know I do,”  _ Ernst signs, and smiles lopsidedly at Melchior. Melchior does his best to smile back.

_ “So do I,”  _ admits Hanschen. 

_ “Yeah,”  _ Melchior signs and rests his face in his hands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!! and that's it!! i'm actually so proud of this. 
> 
> find me on tumblr @ the-stars-say-gay


End file.
